The City of Gold
by Mad Morrigan
Summary: Set about a year after the ToB saga, the Bhaalspawn Brindhal has ascended to the House of the Triad, leaving behind her mortal friends and Anomen, her lover. Shaken by the experience, he seeks his fortune in Maztica... reviews encouraged!
1. Prologue: Progress

**City of Gold**

_Anomen was troubled after his time in Brindhal 's company. He had closely  
witnessed the dark power inherent in the Bhaal child, and no matter  
Brindhal's intent, it caused a crisis of faith. His confidence in Helm  
shaken, Anomen traveled without aim until arriving in the frontiers of  
Maztica. This was during the revolt of Yamash, an evil cleric that raised a  
demonic conquering horde. Anomen was drawn into the conflict, helping to  
organize the besieged Maztican soldiers, but he found he could not  
effectively train them without speaking of duty and the role a guardian must  
play; he was teaching the doctrine of Helm, and understanding it more as he  
did. In the end, his words rang true, and Yamash fell to the Disciples of  
Anomen, a new Order for a new land._

In a silent room of the temple of Quotal, a pair of weathered and bejeweled hands was deft as they reached into a glass jar and extracted a handful of crackling, yellow petals. These were particularly fine and strong hands which had worked the fields of mayz, and cradled babies, lifting them to the bright Maztican skies. These were the hands of Yamash, the Nexalan High Priest of Quotal. Yamash himself had not ploughed a field in several years and his babies were now mostly grown; now his fingers and wrists were covered in gold and jewels, reflecting the trappings of a new life.

Though his hands belonged to a man who had seen joy and love, peace and prosperity, they were now engaged in much graver tasks. Yamash took a few seconds to admire the dried flowers, observing their rich yellow color and intense scent before he dropped them into a mortar and began to grind. They crackled somewhat and their aroma intensified, filling the air with a pungent, heavy scent.

Outside of the window there were cries—the skies were black and thundering, and the farmers were praying for rain to feed their fields. There was famine in Nexal, and the Gods, though they had taunted the people, had not answered the prayers of the layfolk. They had delivered to them crimson skies and the winged beast, the son of Nalcetona, and storms of sand from the South. Yamash had asked Qotal the Feathered Serpent, to save his people, to come back to them, but the Serpent God too had remained silent and all the priests in Nexal together could not feed thousands with prayers alone.

That left only one thing to get their attention, and it was not something that Yamash relished in the least.

_ The Gods are hungry_, he reminded himself as he took another handful of petals and began once more to grind. The teachings of generations past came back unbidden, and with them mixed feelings— everyone in Nexal knew about the Old Times when the Gods demanded blood but things were not as barbaric now. At least, they hadn't been until Cordell came, when Zaltecian priests and others began their bloodletting once more.

When he finished grinding the petals into a fine powder, he poured them into a small bowl and brought it to a large stone slab upon which were laid several other items. The slab itself was a curiosity, built from a stone of such dark red it was almost black and inlaid with a network of gilded channels and grooves. They flowed down the slab's sides and onto the floor weaving complex, nasty patterns of Zaltecian visages. Yamash was somewhat glad that the stone was too dark to pick out anything else. Also upon the slab lay Chilmalma, his eldest daughter, lying quietly on her back. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythmic pattern but she was still awake, and her eyes darted across the room. Yamash admired her courage – his own composure would have crumbled long ago.

"Will it hurt, father?" she asked, glancing up at him at his approach.

He looked into his daughter's dark eyes and his heart wrenched. "No, Chil," he lied, bringing a hand up to stroke her cheek. "You'll be fine."

With his other hand be brought the bowl of powder up and blew lightly upon it. The fine, yellow powder billowed in a cloud that settled upon Chilmalma's body in a yellow cascade of perfume, and the girl closed her black eyes for the last time.

Later, as the priest held up his bloodied hands at the statue of Zaltec, the sky thundered a final time and with a flash of lightning, began to pour down its bounty. The joyful cries of the people echoed from the valley below, but to Yamash the world was as silent as a grave.

A/N – Sorry! Just wanted a quick explanation of why Yamash is the way he is and to set the story. More to come later, though, so keep watching. I do not own Baldur's Gate nor it's characters, nor do I own the concepts of Maztica or Faerun or anything else in the Forgotten Realms. Poor graduate student - please don't sue!


	2. One: That Which is Remembered

1369, Eleint 06

It was a late summer's night in Athkatla and the city was sweltering – the very walls of the Docks district seemed to be melting and indeed, some of the older posters and signs had begun to slide down the walls, their pastes liquified from the strong summer sun. Unfortunately, Athkatla was even warmer at night – the tall buildings had trapped the heat from the day and reflected them back into the air, leaving no respite from the punishing sun. One man took advantage of the temperature, however, and walked the thinned crowds from the Temple to the Docks district undisturbed. His gait was slow, the footsteps rhythmically pounding against the packed dirt robes as he hauled a heavy load from one end of town to the other.

From somewhere nearby a shadow skipped out of an alley and considered the laden man that had just walked past. He was a native by the looks of him, and used to carrying heavy things: the torches on the street illuminated a thin film of sweat on him when normally a man with such a load would be drenched from head to toe in this heat. He was dressed plainly, too, in greys and shades of muted red – the colors of the layfolk (the nobility having traditionally preferred more brilliant hues).

The shade slipped between a few more buildings, following behind him as quietly as she dared. A flash of silver and the sigil of a gauntleted hand– _ah! A holy symbol_ – shone in the torchlight as he continued to haul, from the Government district across the bridge. He stopped for a moment in front of a group of vagabonds, men and women and children huddled around the grand arch, and, balancing the laden sack on his shoulders precariously, rummaged around his coinpurse and extracted a handful of gleaming metal coins.

"Me life's book's all in red ink," one of the woman wailed, hungrily eyeing the coins in his hand. "Won't ye spare a Fandar or two?"

"I ain't had a proper meal in three days," another complained. Ere long the whole assembly had joined in, but the man remained inert the scene, standing, with one hand carrying the heavy sack he was hoisting and the other poised to the scatter the coins. His hesitatation was brief, though, and he tossed them with resolve. There were several cries - "A pearl to you!" and "You're right mithral, sirrah!" as they fell down in metallic shower but the man had began to walk away and missed the appreciation of the crowd.

The shadow picked up one of the fallen coins that had scattered far from the rest: an electrum Decime, stamped with the crest of Athkatla on both ends. She eyed it for a moment, then tossed it at the woman who had spoken first.

"Bless yer heart –" the woman began, but the shade put her finger to her lips and smiled in the flickering torchlight. The older woman cocked her head to the side and peered intently at the woman who clung to the darkness.

"Ain't you –" she began once more, but the shadow had fled back into the night as silently as a ghost. The burdened man was waiting for her, several hundred feet away.

"You shouldn't have come, my lady." He stared at the darkness just out of the range of the torches. The flashing torchlight picked out flecks of auburn from his dark hair and beard, and emphasized dark circles underneath his eyes – the signs of many recent sleepless nights.

"Why not?" the woman asked, stepping into full view. On her, light reflected differently: off of obviously-dyed pink hair and a pale, freckled face. She smiled at him, and it struck the man how little Imoen of Candlekeep had changed since the last time they had spoken. Though her cheeks were less gaunt now and she seemed in better spirits since the Bhaal ordeal, she still wore the same wistful, vaguely sad expression.

Anomen Delryn sighed and shifted the weight of the sack to his other shoulder. "This is a journey I'd prefer to make alone, if it's all the same," he said, a little more tersely than he'd intended. He strode off again, skirting the edge of the Graveyard District into the Slums and Imoen followed, not bothering to hide as she caught up to him.

"With all due respect," she began, leisurely keeping pace, "The last thing you need right now is to be alone."

"Funny that _you _should be one to mention such a thing," he responded.

Imoen, in her usual fashion, let the comment slide over her. "Me?" she asked, slowing her stride. "Me, I'm never alone. Not anymore." She lifted a chain around her neck to produce a small golden charm – the sigil of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy. Anomen made an inscrutable noise in the back of his throat and increased his pace. The heat and his cargo began to take their toll and when Imoen, walking at a casual pace, caught up to him large beads of sweat were forming on his brow and temples.

"That… was very low of you," he said quietly.

Imoen rolled her eyes. "You can't run away from it forever, Anomen. Sometime, you'll have to face up to it. She's allied with _your_ God, if I recall correctly."

"My lady, I am not running away from anything," he retorted, the exertion of his pace and carrying his possessions beginning to take their toll on his wind. "I haven't had time to think of the matter."

"You haven't wanted to think about it," Imoen argued, pressing her point. "That, as I recall, counts as running away from it."

Anomen pursed his lips – all of the things he really wanted to say would be far from constructive, but he felt the need to finish the conversation. _Running away from it indeed…_

"This discussion is over," he said bluntly. "Good business, Imoen."

Everyone, including Imoen, knew that when Anomen reverted to Amnish aphorisms he was not in his right mind. The cleric shied away from such reminders of his family whenever possible.

"Look, I'm not here to argue," Imoen responded, raising her hands submissively. "It's been a rough year for us all… some of us more so than others," she added, upon seeing his expression. "Hey. I heard you were leaving and wanted to see you off –"

"Who told you I was leaving?" Anomen interrupted, the sweat starting to pour down his face.

"Silly, you're carrying a sack full of armor and clothing, and your room at the Order's been vacated. Anyone with half a brain can infer–"

"That," Anomen began, pausing to catch his breath "did _not_ answer my question."

Imoen's face remained impassive, her expression closed. "Heard it through the grapevine, s'all."

"And what grapevine would that be?" the Watcher panted, turning with the bend in the road into the Docks District.

"That, young Sir Delryn, would be me," the deep voice of Keldorn Firecam boomed from ahead. The old paladin brought up an ungauntleted hand and twirled a keyring around it that glittered in the city lights. "You should know better than to hand your housekeys off to me and expect a quiet departure. Thank you, Imoen."

The pink-haired wizardress smiled in return. Anomen swore in a most unknightly manner just as another voice added, "You should also know better than to expect two nobles from Athkatla and an ex-thief to keep their mouths shut."

_Nalia too? The Hells be incarnate…how many more are there?_

The paladin and mage stepped forward to join them, and Keldorn hoisted the sack from the younger man's shoulders. As Anomen's body sagged in relief, Nalia, being ever-proper, handed him a handkerchief to wipe his face. She smiled at him and said, "The rest of us are up ahead."

"How many'd we get?" Imoen asked her, taking Anomen by the crook of the elbow and leading him forward. He followed, too tired and stunned to resist.

"Oh," Nalia said airily, waving her delicately gloved hand dismissively, "A few here and there. See for yourself."

Anomen had been surprised before, but nothing prepared him for the sight that lay in front of the small party. His allies – _all_ of them – stood in the lantern- and torchlight of the docks district smiling, moving forward. Jaheira, Minsc, Aerie, Mazzy, Valygar… Keldorn cleared his throat and set Anomen's things down gently.

"I hope you don't mind," the old paladin smiled, helping Imoen nudge him forward into the crowd, "But we took the liberty of inviting a few old friends."

_Several hours later_

From the deck of the ship, Athkatla looked like a great, sparkling jewel against the black velvet of the Sea of Swords. The turrets of Goldspires glittered in the Temple District's streetlights and the docks were awash with the lanterns of ships hailing from far distant lands, their colorful sails with their stripes and heraldry visible even a long way's out. Above and all around the ship the stars twinkled merrily, casting faint light upon the crew of the _Gilded Summer_. Never in his life had Anomen seen so many lights at once, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see. Athkatla-by-sea had lived up to its reputation: lovely… _illuminating_…yet terrifying at the same time.

The beauty of the moment was lost, however, as the ship rocked with a large breaker and the Watcher stifled a sudden wave of nausea and turned his back to the magnificent sight. Anomen Delryn had always had trouble with his sea-legs- that is, he had none- and his stomach and the alcohol sloshing within it were proving themselves no match to swaying of the ship. A few sailors looked his way and laughed; he ignored them, but turned once again towards the rail and unceremoniously proceeded to empty his stomach of its contents.

"Outta yer element, holy man?" One of the sailors called, from the laughing group. "Ain't earned yer sea legs yet, eh?"

"Eh, bloke's prob'ly never set foot outta Amn a'fore this," another said sagely to the first. Their guffaws grew louder, and Anomen irritably crossed his arms, laid his head upon them, and leaned against the railing to steady himself. The entire boat reeked of fish and dirty water and was almost crusted over with sea salt, and not for the first time that night he wondered why he was there and not back at the Sea's Bounty, sleeping off what was sure to be a Balor of a hangover.

_Helm help me_, he thought irritably as he stared into the inky sea. From somewhere down below decks a sailor had taken up a fiddle and was sawing away, singing an overly sentimental tune that made the other sailors clap and his head hurt. _Why am I here again?_

"_We drink in memory of Brindhal, Goddess of Mercy!" Minsc called out to the assembly, holding up a gigantic tankard and sloshing ale over both Imoen and Aerie._

_Oh yes,_ he responded to his mental query. The reflection of the upper half of his head stared back up at him grimly, echoing his expression. _You're on some damnable ship, fighting seasickness at every wave and heading a very, very long way from home because you don't fit in anymore, Anomen. There's nothing left for you. _

He snorted, disgusted. _A lovely mess you've gotten yourself into, Delryn. Lovely indeed._

Sighing, he looked up at the retreating city once more, looking radiant in the distance. It was a pretty view, but a meaningless one – a trick of the dark. Anomen had had enough of the lights of Athkatla, though, enough of the fresh sea air and smell of fish and nausea. He was ready to be once again below deck, where he at least couldn't _see_ the waters churning around him. For now, he wanted imagine he was still with friends and that, perhaps, all was still as it was before Her ascension.

**Author's notes:** You might be wondering about some of the weird phraseology in here (e.g., "My life's book's all in red ink!"). There's a wonderful book out there online called **_Lands of Intrigue_** that details the little aspects of Amn and Tethyr. It's 2nd edition and can be found free online from several different sources in .pdf format. I highly recommend giving it a glance, because there's _loads _of information about those regions that you can't find anywhere else. Now, for some translations of the colloquialisms I've included:

"My life's book's all in red ink!" pretty much translates to "I'm really down on my luck!"

A Fandar is the Amnish equivalent to a copper piece, and a Decime to a silver. Even though you wouldn't know it, the different regions have differently minted coins that all have different names.

The Amnish tend to use metals to describe a person's character. The more precious a metal is, the higher the praise. Ergo, "You're right mithral!" is a really big compliment, and pretty much says that you're perfect and beyond reproach.

Lastly, "Good business!" is used as both a greeting and goodbye in the power- and business-driven society of Amn. It can also be used to hastily make one's departure, as Anomen so skillfully demonstrated.


	3. Two: Summer Showers

1369, Marpenoth 17

Anomen and Brindhal had developed a habit of going off from the rest of the group under the pretense of picking flowers during their time together, but no one believed them after several weeks and though they kept up the pretense, their activities were generally ignored. Jaheira had always frowned upon flower picking anyway, politely but firmly announcing that the plants needed their blooms more than they did. Still, every few days or so in the warmer months, Anomen and Brindhal would use the transparent excuse to get some time alone, away from the rest of the group. They would be gone for a couple of hours, and return with pollen in their hair and a small bouquet or two to pass around.

Suldanesselar had been particular good for flowers when they arrived, and the elves had been given advanced warning of their off-time activities. When they arrived in their room they found a good supply of nararoot and cassil sitting on a bedside table – a gift from Jaheira. At the time Anomen had been irritated – they certainly did more than what Jaheira implied. Brindhal, however, simply laughed it off.

"Well, it's ours," she had said, bemusedly looking at the bundled wraps of herbs. "Might as well use it." So they did, among the weeks that they spent in the elven city following the defeat of Irenicus.

"_What do you think?" Brindhal asked, as she placed a daisy chain over her short dark hair. The Watcher laughed and looked down at his own hands, which were worrying the stems of some colorful wildflowers – daisies and poppies and buttercups._

"_Lovely, my lady," he answered honestly, putting the flowers aside. "Come here." _

"_Mmm, what for?" the paladin asked, smiling at him coyly from the patch of clover she'd been sitting in. Anomen gave her a serious look and her smile subsided a little – she stood up and, trampling the flowers underfoot – kneeled next to him. "You look serious – what's the matter?"_

_Anomen wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her to him. "Nothing," he replied, burying his face into the fabric of her blue tunic. "I am simply painting a picture."_

_Brindhal laughed, and he could hear it rumble through her stomach. "A picture of what, Sir knight?"_

"_Of you, of course," Anomen answered, releasing her, looking up into her eyes. "Rather, of us."_

"_Oh, now you're being ridiculous." Although the words were harsh, they were spoken gently and there was a slight smile on her face._

"_I'm but a man, my lady. Allow me my flights of fancy, eh?" _

_Anomen's comment was meant lightly, but a heaviness had fallen over the the two knights and they faced one another uncertainly for a few moments, their dark eyes searching each other's face. It was Brindhal that looked away first, and a slight flush crept onto her dark cheeks._

"_In a tenday," she murmured, fidgeting with the daisy chain. "We'll leave at the start of Summer."_

"_To where?" he asked, watching the yellow petals flutter in the air as they fell from his lover's dark hair onto his tunic. _

"_We're docking in fifteen minutes," Brindhal said quietly, plucking them off of him. She held them up into the breeze that seemed to permeate the late spring air and watched as they floated up and away – to Anomen, the young knight next to him seemed statuesque - goddess-like, with the sun behind her and covered in the late spring wildblossoms. Except…_

_Anomen wrinkled his brows in languid confusion. Something was most definitely off. "What did you say, my love?"_

_Brindhal leaned in close to him, and Anomen could smell the scent of the wildflowers in the air, and the feeling of the cotton tunic on his hands and arms. Although the paladin was not a strikingly beautiful woman, she had an earthy charm that the Helmite found appealing, and when she brushed her lips against his cheek and the lobe of his ear, he closed his eyes and sighed in content._

"_I said," she murmured provocatively into his ear, "that we're docking, you thrice-damned sluggards…"_

"– and you! Helmite!" An angry voice called, rousing him from his sleep. He sat up suddenly as a large, barrel-chested man – the captain of _Gilded Summer_ – burst into his room and pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Out with ye, we're dockin' in fifteen minutes an' the clouds ain't going ta wait for ye to get yer arse out of bed!"

"Wha—?" Anomen murmured sleepily, turning over to face the open door. The jolt of his awakening had dulled the lines between realily and his dream world, and he felt foggy-headed.

"Get out there an' help wit' tha cargo or I'll be tossing ye off tha sides!" the portly man bellowed, slamming the door behind him. Anomen blinked in the darkness of his quarters for a moment before climbing off of the bunk, hastily throwing on his clothing, and joining the sailors upstairs.

The captain hadn't lied – the skies above were the color of charcoal and arcing lightning across the clouds and sea. Around him the sailors were frantically securing cargo and adjusting the sails, with the captain- stationed above once more- shouting orders to and fro. Anomen watched as the old seaman grabbed the ear of a younger man and pushed him towards the others, and for a brief moment, the Helmite contemplated sneaking below decks before the storm broke all around them. Unfortunately, the captain had spotted him and had other ideas.

"Helmite!" he called, motioning him over vigorously. Anomen swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he crossed the deck to stand at the old man's side, dodging the busy sailors. Around him the ship was swaying violently and he inwardly admired the balance of the other men – the priest felt ill every few steps and despite the long journey, a tolerance for seasickness had never quite developed. Standing on a raised portion of the deck, the captain calmly surveyed the scene around the ship and the weather's impending turmoil.

"If the Bitch Queen ain't spared us today, I'll be a Sahuagin," he said loudly, followed by, "Look there! Just in the nick of time!"

The weathered man gestured to the starboard side of the ship and Anomen turned his head – there, after almost five tendays of roiling sea and azure skies, was land. Rich, green land, so unlike Amn that Anomen was momentarily taken aback with the intensity of the colors in this part of the world. For that moment, the entire world consisted of Anomen, the sea, and the verdant land ahead.

"Maztica's a beaut, ain't she?" The captain sighed rapturously as the first fat drops fell from the sky above and the sailors scrambled below. "'S too bad ye won't be seein' Helmsport. That'd be a sight fer ye."

"What's the matter with Helmsport?" Anomen asked, putting a hand up to block the approaching curtain of rain. The landscape was growing nearer now, and he could make out the waving tops of palms and other trees, their leaves shimmering in the late summer rain.

"Plague, if ye can believe that! Me priestie got the Sending tha other day, tellin' us ta stay away!" he responded, gesturing to a man standing near the sails, with the sigil of Shaundakul emblazoned on lightweight robes. "Tha weather's made the sea so bad in those parts we couldn't pass anyway, even if there weren't no plague. We're goin' ta a nearby place, though, just a few miles northwesterly… ah, Hells…"

All around them the sky opened up, drenching everyone on deck to the bone. The captain flung a couple of creative curses towards the heavens then turned his attentions towards the sailors below – Anomen had gotten used to his tempestuous moods and short attention span, and shrugged it off as just another quirk of the ship, like the creaking wooden sides and stubborn doors. "Anchors down, lads! We'll wait 'til this is over ta get out the rowboats, aye?" He turned to Anomen, and inclined his head towards the men hauling the anchor – a not-so-subtle hint which the Helmite easily picked up on.

In spite of his nausea, the priest began to sprint away from the captain to help with preparations to drop the anchor. There was a palpable feeling of excitement in the air around him, and it was infectious – he felt invigorated, almost reborn in the gale, and wanted to bottle this feeling and enjoy it later, when the time came – and it would come, he was sure – that he regretted his decision to leave Faerun.

On land stood two figures loitering near a well that were engaged in a most curious and unique conversation. The villagers, seeing a storm coming, avoided them as they sprinted away to escape the wind and rain. These two strangers seemed almost unearthly, though, with their apparent disregard for the elements – one of them was as dry as a bone, while the other was soaked and didn't much seem to care. The first, an older man, was sitting on his haunches and surveying the road before them. The other, a young woman with long, coarse plaits and deep brown eyes, placidly stood next to him and held a large, water-bearing jug which was busily overflowing and sloshing in the rain.

"Thy timing is off," The old man said in a clipped voice to the dark-eyed woman, who looked wet, annoyed and worried at the same time. "Thou hast said he would be here by this time and thou hast misjudged."

"I didn't anticipate Umberlee opening the bloody Elemental Plane of Water on us," the woman replied back equally brusquely, sparing a glance at a retreating figure running away from the gale before turning her eyes back to the road. "If we're not careful, one of the villagers will hear us."

"Let them try, they're all heading into the woods," the man murmured, flicking a spot of mud from his knee. "Since ye have dragged me here to witness, though, I shall ask thee again: are ye sure about this?"

"I'm sure about this one, yes," the girl responded, hefting the jug and pointing to where the ship was anchored in the distance. "Just as I was sure about the last two. You're jealous because he's yours, aren't you?" She smiled a little at her joke, which the old man studiously ignored. The Lord of Watchers was as dour as always, and the rain wasn't helping his mortal joints in the least.

"Nay, that is not an issue at all. I feel that ye are letting thy personal matters interfere with thy decisions," he answered bluntly. "Aye, Delryn's a good sort. Aye, so were the other two. Ye have got a fine High Priestess in the making with that dark elf, but I ask thee again - are ye _absolutely _sure about this? Once ye have chosen, ye cannot go back on it. Perhaps it would be for the best if thou were to wait a while at the least, to see how his fates play out."

"Midnight didn't wait long and I shant either," was her only response as she poured out some of the rainwater from the jug. The excess water from the jug splashed cold against his bare feet, and he grimaced at his arthritis.

The Lord Helm sighed and sprang up, feeling the creak of old human joints and regretting his decision to accompany his young charge. "Midnight did not have much choice," he pushed. "I had been hoping that thou would be more like… Deneir in thine choosings."

His companion laughed, splashing more water from the jug in her arms as she began to walk down the muddy path. "Deneir's original choices had long since died by the time he got around to picking," Brindhal retorted, a smile coming to her dark face. "I'd personally rather be a Midnight than a Denier. Trust me, brother, I know what I'm doing."

"If thou sayest so," Helm called crossly, walkeding quickly to catch up. "Though I hold the most sincere hope that ye turn out to be telling the truth. For now let us hope that thy choice comes soon, lest my joints prevent me from changing back."

"Your mortality has made you cantankerous, did you know that?"

"Hush, girl, I cannot hear ye over Umberlee's tantrum," was the God's terse reply to her comment, followed quickly by a muttered, "Thrice damned mud!"

Despite her banter, the goddess was nervous – or at least as close to nervous as she had been recent memory. It had been a year (over a year, actually) since her ascension and she had spent the better part of it waiting for moments such as these. Watching Viconia's hidden-but-secretly-pleased haughtiness and Imoen's merriment at their reunitings, though, were light compared to this, a most auspicious of meetings. This was to be her third Chosen, and as the saying always went, _the third time's a charm…_

"Repeat not the tenets of heathen Tymorans and Maskites, child," Helm said in an irritated voice. Brindhal bit her lip both in embarrassment and in an effort to keep from laughing.

The two gods walked along in the rain, ignoring the storm breaking all around them. Elsewhere, inland, the Helmites were safely ensconced in their Fortresses and the Ilmateri passed out hot milk and mashed cornmeal under leaky roofs. On the ship, the sailors and priests heaved and sweated in an attempt to keep the vessel afloat.

"Heave, my boys!" the captain called to his crew from the sails. "Put your backs inta it! Ten lashes to the first one what shirks his duty to the _Summer _and her crew!"

"We watch because Helm bades us Vigilance and Ditifulness," a steely-haired priest called, holding a glass of wine aloft. "Our unblinking eye is a pale imitation of His own…"

"… and bades us to relieve the suffering of the weak, helpless and the hopeless, for we are the salve to the blows of the world and the poultice to ease the illness man inflicts upon his fellow brothers. Whilst these cords bind thy wrists, thou shalt never waver," finished a yellow-haired woman to her clergy, breaking open a loaf and passing the halves to either side.

"Almost time," Brindhal called to her companion over the wind and the rain. Ahead, for Brindhal, lay her path and Anomen's and the road for the Helmite's salvation. In front of the two Gods was the beach and its shifting sands, and the turbulent ocean spread out as far as the eyes could see.


End file.
